The Prince of Darkness (53 page)

He could of course see that the barons were not so eager as they would seem to set a French king on their throne, but since the intervention of the Pope their need was urgent. John was amassing a large army of mercenaries from the Continent and this army would be mainly composed of the French – subjects of Philip. It might well be that the barons, as John’s army increased, believed they were being forced into a desperately unfavourable position. It was a clever stroke of strategy to call in the help of Philip’s son Louis.

While the French were debating how they should act, the Pope threatened to excommunicate Stephen Langton who was not obeying the orders sent from Rome and was pleading the just cause of the barons.

Langton realised that his only hope of convincing the Pope was to go in person to Rome and plead his cause with him.

When John heard that Langton had left for Rome he was
uneasy. Langton was an eloquent man; he could lay the case before Innocent in a manner which would bring no good to John. Up to this point his chances had seemed good. His army was increasing and although they were mercenaries who would fight any battle providing the rewards were good, they were trained soldiers, experienced and well equipped in every way for battle. The barons were clearly not trained soldiers; they lacked leaders. A man bent on revenge such as Robert FitzWalter might rouse people by the force of his eloquence but that did not make him a good leader.

‘By God’s ears and teeth,’ cried John, ‘I am going to subdue these barons. I am going to make them wish they had thought twice before raising their hands against me.’

Then luck began to turn against him. The first stroke came with the death of Innocent, and although John immediately put his case to his successor, Honorius III was not interested. Support from Rome had crumbled. Then Louis had arrived in England and was given a welcome by the barons.

‘So they have called in the French!’ cried John. ‘I never thought to see the like. No good has come to me since I turned to the Church.’

The faithful Marshal was beside him, urging him not to despair. He had his mercenaries, trained soldiers, and it was well known that those who defended their homes had an advantage over the invaders. Some special fighting spirit was given to them; it was their determination to fight to the end.

‘What of the Conqueror?’ cried John. ‘He came and took the land. Are the French going to do to me what he did to the Saxons?’

‘Not if you are strong.’

‘Strong! Am I not strong? And what of these cursed barons?’

The Marshal shook his head sadly. It was not the time to tell him that his tyrannical acts had made bitter enemies of men who might otherwise have been his friends.

‘Those who are loyal to the crown will fight to the death to keep it where it belongs.’

‘And they have brought in the French, the accursed traitors.’

‘Traitors indeed,’ agreed the Marshal.

‘They have brought foreigners into the land.’

As he had, the Marshal thought sadly, with his mercenaries. Foreign soldiers to fight Englishmen in their own country!

William Marshal had never thought it would come to this. The barons were demanding justice; they had produced their Charter and John had been forced to pen his signature to it. That great wise King Henry I had granted a Charter – not because he wished to reduce his own power but because he wished to strengthen it. But he had been a wise king.

The summer was passing. It was an uneasy situation with an enemy on English soil. Even those who had brought them into the country now felt qualms. Did they want to be a vassal of France? Did they want Louis on their throne?

When Louis had arrived the majority of the barons had welcomed him; now they were not so sure. Many who had first supported him now came back to John. He did not reproach them; he was only too pleased to see them.

He heard that Eustace de Vesci had been killed at the siege of Barnard’s Castle.

He laughed aloud, thinking of the man who had stood before him insolently recounting how he had duped the King. He had been one of the main leaders of the rebels, egged on by thoughts of revenge. And now it was Vesci who lay stiff and cold, not John.

The King of Scotland had come to the aid of the rebels and was harrying the North; but the fact that so many of the barons were now regretting the arrival of the French put heart into John.

He planned to drive his forces between those of the Scots in the North and the barons in the South and this brought him to the town of Lynn – a loyal town, a trading town which, like the Cinque Ports, enjoyed certain privileges.

At Lynn he was well received and he spent the time there feasting, drinking and listening to music while he planned his next move.

Perhaps he had feasted too well in Lynn; perhaps he had drunk too freely of their wine, but he began to feel unwell and suffered from dysentery which made travelling difficult.

But he must move on and from Lynn he travelled to Wisbech. With him he took a great many belongings, everything he would need for sojourn wherever the occasion should arise, and as the King must always be surrounded by objects worthy of his rank – and never more so than when he was in danger of losing it – his baggage was considerable. It contained his jewellery of which he had always been inordinately fond and as he grew older and perhaps more in need of adornments to disguise his mottled complexion and his ravaged face, he liked to astonish with their brilliance all those who beheld him.

In addition to his jewellery he had brought other precious possessions including his ornamental plate, flagons and goblets of gold and silver, the royal regalia – everything which it was necessary to keep with him for fear of its being taken by an enemy.

He wished to get to the north side of the Wash and rode off with his army, leaving the wagons containing his possessions
to take a more direct route – as their progress was necessarily slow – across the estuary. This journey had to be taken when the tide was out as it meant crossing sand which would be treacherous, and it was necessary to take guides who by prodding the sands with long poles could detect any sign of quicksand.

John left them to take the longer route, with instructions that he would wait at Swineshead on the north side of the Wash for the baggage to arrive.

The cumbersome cavalcade made its way to the sands. The guide was a little late and it was impossible to start without him. Therefore they would have to make up speed in the crossing. The mist descended and they set out. Before they were halfway across the estuary the wheels of the wagons became stuck in the sand and it was impossible to move them. The tide started to come in and in spite of the frantic efforts of the drivers of the vehicles they remained stuck fast.

The waters washed over the sands and the wagons were sucked down with all their contents.

John waiting at Swineshead realised what had happened and let out a great wail of anger.

He felt ill, exhausted by the rigours of the drive in his condition; and this seemed the last straw.

He soon learned that he had lost his jewels, his precious plate, everything that constituted his wealth.

What was there to do? He felt ill and wretched. He was defeated. The French were on English soil. His barons were rising against him. The new Pope was indifferent to his plight. This must be the end.

His anger was intense, but quieter because he had not the physical strength to give it play.

Was this what he had longed for in the days when Richard was King? Was this what he had murdered Arthur for? There had been good times of course. The first days with Isabella.

Where was Isabella now? What was she thinking? How would she feel when he was dead?

He wanted revenge … revenge!

On the way to the Abbey of Swineshead they passed a convent and stopped for refreshment. It was brought to them by a nun who seemed to him in his fevered state to have a look of Isabella. To think of Isabella in a nun’s robe was amusing. But that, he thought, is how she would have looked years ago had they dressed her thus.

He spoke to the nun, who shrank from him, and he felt the stirrings of anger and a desire to force his will upon her. It was but a shadow of the feelings he had known in the past. He mused as he drank the ale she had brought for them. A few years, no less than that, I would have made some plan to abduct her. I would have had good sport with her.

But he was in no mood for sport. He thought of his beautiful jewels somewhere in the quicksands of the Wash. He thought of the French on his soil and his subjects taking up arms against him. And a nagging anger possessed him, a futile anger because he was too weak to give voice to it.

They left the convent and went on to Swineshead. Here they would rest for the night.

He sat at refectory. He ate and drank and tried to regain his youth and spirits. He tried to forget what was happening; he wanted to be young again. The wine numbed his senses, soothed the pains of his body and loosened his tongue.

He talked of the nun he had seen. ‘By God’s ears,’ he said, ‘we’ll ride back that way. I’ll take her … by force if necessary. She had a look in her eyes … perhaps not so prim, eh?’

One of his men whispered to him: ‘I have heard that the nun is the sister of the Abbot here.’

That made him laugh. ‘So much the better. So much the better. Oh, God’s eyes, what is this country coming to? Disloyal subjects. I’ll starve them to death. Perhaps they won’t be so eager to shout for the Frenchman when I have taught them what starvation means. I’ll make food scarce … I’ll burn the granaries. They shall know hunger … and I shall know the Abbot’s sister.’

‘My lord,’ said one of the monks, ‘I believe you have a fondness for peaches.’

‘’Tis so.’

‘We have some choice peaches. Have I your permission to bring you some?’

‘I give that permission,’ cried John.

A little later the monk came with three peaches on a platter. John ate them hungrily. Almost immediately afterwards he was seized with violent pains.

All through the night he suffered and in the morning he set out on his journey, but when he reached the Bishop of Lincoln’s castle at Newark he could go no farther.

‘I think I am dying,’ he said.

The Bishop brought the Abbot of Croxton to him for he was said to be skilled in the art of healing; but there was nothing the Abbot could do.

John lay on his bed thinking of past events and begging the Abbot of Croxton to hear his confession.

Where to begin? There were so many black sins that he had forgotten half of them. Dominating them all was the night in the castle of Rouen when he had killed Arthur and taken his body out, burdened with a stone, that he might sink in the waters of the Seine.

‘Forgiveness, my lord God …’ he murmured.

But he knew he was asking a great deal.

He said: ‘What is that noise?’

‘’Tis the wind, my lord. It is fierce this night.’

People said that the storm that blew on that October night of the year 1216 was that aroused by the gates of Hell opening wide to receive the Prince of Darkness in his true domain.

He died in the early hours of the eighteenth day of that month and as it was his wish that his body should be buried before the altar of St Wulfstan in Worcester Cathedral, it was taken there in a funeral procession protected by the mercenary army he had brought over to fight for him.

Chapter XXI